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Poem: The Skin as Your Canvas

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Mother hates tattoos she thinks they are tacky  unattractive  a sign of a criminal  She talked about them behind their back but never directly to their faces Husband thinks  those who have them  are rebels against  polite society  He says he believes in live and let live but he always has a definite opinion I believe that  they are beautiful art  an expression of  individuality The colors and patterns fascinate my creative eye perhaps one day I get pictures of my own
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Poem: The Preening Host

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Face florid with wine  unfocused gaze  the men's smiles do not reach their eyes the women titter behind their fans the servants go about with averted faces and the duchess  once again  goes to bed  alone.
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Poem: The Cycle of Nature

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It is spring  the seedling  pokes its leaves  out of the soil  It is summer  it flourishes  in the bright sun  the flowers bright  It is autumn  it shivers in the cold  it knows its time  fast approaches  It is winter  its roots shrivel  the cold freezes  it no longer breathes A new seed  slumbers deep  underground the cycle continues.
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Poem: The Intention of Words

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Long long ago  carved in rock  painted on leather  words of love  and protection  and revenge  a runic incantation charged with every bit of spiritual intention a declaration of thought this pagan poetry  still has a magic  every time the words  are read aloud by the living the bond is unbroken the curse is ongoing the weaver lives anew
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Poem: Choose Your Side

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One man's villain  is another man's hero  whose side are you on?  One man's rebel  is another man's  freedom fighter  One man's genius  is another man's  madman  One man's pariah is another man's savior Whose side are you on?
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Poem: The Seamstress

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Cut with the grain not against it  stick with the pattern the needle drives the thread  with every push  of the pedal  pins and backing seams and zippers the mannequin stands ready for its brand new outfit why make a bespoke one when you can buy cheaply? each garment is fresh a unique expression of art what seems like a lost art  is alive and well  a practical skill  in this day and age
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Poem: Your World in a Raindrop

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Prisms of light  broken up  by fresh drops  that run down  the glass  A dark background the stormy sky lightning above illuminates the inky blackness Can you see  your own reflection  is it crystal clear  or is it shattered  by thunder outside?
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